“Help, O king, for your people’s sake!”
     King Marsil heard their cry at hand,
     “Mahound destroy thee, O mighty land;
     Thy race came hither to crush mine own. 
     What cities wasted and overthrown,
     Doth Karl of the hoary head possess! 
     Rome and Apulia his power confess,
     Constantinople and Saxony;
     Yet better die by the Franks than flee. 
     On, Saracens! recreant heart be none;
     If Roland live, we are all foredone.”

     CXLIV

     Then with the lance did the heathens smite
     On shield and gleaming helmet bright;
     Of steel and iron arose the clang,
     Towards heaven the flames and sparkles sprang;
     Brains and blood on the champaign flowed;
     But on Roland’s heart is a dreary load,
     To see his vassals lie cold in death;
     His gentle France he remembereth,
     And his uncle, the good King Carlemaine;
     And the spirit within him groans for pain.

     CXLV

     Count Roland entered within the prease,
     And smote full deadly without surcease;
     While Durindana aloft he held,
     Hauberk and helm he pierced and quelled,
     Intrenching body and hand and head. 
     The Saracens lie by the hundred dead,
     And the heathen host is discomfited.

     CXLVI

     Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere,
     Brandished on high his sword Hauteclere—­
     Save Durindana, of swords the best. 
     To the battle proudly he him addressed. 
     His arms with the crimson blood were dyed. 
     “God, what a vassal!” Count Roland cried. 
     “O gentle baron, so true and leal,
     This day shall set on our love the seal! 
     The Emperor cometh to find us dead,
     For ever parted and severed. 
     France never looked on such woful day;
     Nor breathes a Frank but for us will pray,—­
     From the cloister cells shall the orisons rise,
     And our souls find rest in Paradise.” 
     Olivier heard him, amid the throng,
     Spurred his steed to his side along. 
     Saith each to other, “Be near me still;
     We will die together, if God so will.”

     CXLVII

     Roland and Olivier then are seen
     To lash and hew with their falchions keen;
     With his lance the archbishop thrusts and slays,
     And the numbers slain we may well appraise;
     In charter and writ is the tale expressed—­
     Beyond four thousand, saith the geste. 
     In four encounters they sped them well: 
     Dire and grievous the fifth befell. 
     The cavaliers of the Franks are slain
     All but sixty, who yet remain;
     God preserved them, that ere they die,
     They may sell their lives full hardily.

     The horn

     CXLVIII